


the summer came and we got lost, all of us

by sidnihoudini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-05
Updated: 2008-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's laying awake around three a.m., one arm hanging off the bed, too hot to sleep under more than a sheet. Sam's snoring like a fucking cartoon character next to him and Milo keeps talking in his sleep, at one point he's complaining about having to boil water for the lung machine. Whatever that means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the summer came and we got lost, all of us

_"My mother ate my dog!"_

"Not all of it..."

Dean cackles and bounces the beer against his knee, feet kicked up on the chintzy-looking motel room coffee table.

"Evil Dead, man," He says over his shoulder at Sam, still picking over the small Chinese buffet spread across the counter. "I love it."

He digs around in the noodles for a decent sized piece of chicken as he watches Dean watch the movie, stun-face fully equipped even though he's seen the thing at least 150 times. And that might be a low balled estimate -- some things never change.

"Dude you've seen that thing 150 times," Sam says, just to put it out there. Dean makes a very non-committed noise and takes another few swigs of his beer.

Dean is bubbling with happiness as something splatters on-screen and he explains, "It never gets old, man! Never!"

"Want anymore of this?" Sam asks, starting to stack the styrofoam containers into the middle of the counter without waiting for an answer. They're outta here first thing tomorrow; no time for leftovers. "I'm gonna puke if I eat another bite."

Fully engrossed in the movie still, Dean flaps his hand a couple of times, and makes noises that sound a lot like, "Yeah, yeah, just leave it there a minute."

Sam rolls his eyes and goes to take a shower.

En route to the bathroom, he passes by one of the two beds, and stops to stoop down and adjust a crooked little head laying against the pillow at an uncomfortable angle.

Well. Maybe some things change.

.

On the commercial break, Dean peels himself up out of the couch to hurry into the little kitchen suite and re-stock in both greasy Chinese and beer. Two of his many favorite things.

In the middle of re-locating the rest of the chicken balls into his own styrofoam container, he notices the little body sprawled across the bed starting to move around, a slow wake up. Dean frowns, sucking some grease off his thumb as he watches. He always fucking tells Sam not to poke at him, not to worry about the weird position he's sleeping in or the thumb in his mouth, because he sleeps like he's got his own baby to take care of. One little movement or touch, and he's wide awake.

"Go back to sleep," Dean tries to order, eyes flickering between where he's OD-ing himself on sodium and where the little brown head of hair is starting to roll around on the pillow, sleepy noises and stretched out legs. He sets his plate down on the counter; Evil Dead 2 comes back from commercial break.

The water shuts off in the bathroom as the child starts rolling over, trying to sit up. Dean wipes his hands on his pants and starts over from the kitchen.

"Where's Idaho?" He murmurs, rubbing at his eyes with both hands, stretching his eyelids all out, whites gone sleep-pink.

One hand on his warm little back, Dean messes with the covers. "About nine hours back."

Dean leans over the bed to see if there's a chance of getting him back to sleep, but ends up picking a piece of motel bed cover lint off of his bottom lip instead.

"Hungry?" Dean asks instead, eyebrows raising.

.

Sam comes out of the bathroom in a pair of jogging pants and a t-shirt that looks like he accidentally dropped it in the sink when it was still half full.

The room is completely empty.

"Guys?" He calls, slowly rubbing his towel over the back of his head. He knots his eyebrows and starts across the room: television still on, food only half pilfered, bed a total mess, one pair of boots missing. "Dean?" He pauses, and glances around. Door's unlocked, but it's also eleven at night. "Milo?"

Just as some chick loses her shit and screams on screen, the door swings open and Dean tromps in wearing his boots, unlaced. Milo's on his hip, bare-foot, face still mostly sleepy, his stuffed dog tangled under one arm.

Dean raises his eyebrows when he sees Sam. "It was stuck behind the seat."

"Huh?" Sam asks, over another loud scream from the TV. Milo looks over Dean's shoulder in interest, one arm resting on his shoulder, chin leaning on that.

Rolling his eyes, Dean kicks the door closed behind him, and starts kicking off his boots. Milo yawns right in his face.

"The dog," He explains, heading back to his food, Milo still hooked over his hip. It's such a bizarre image Sam's stomach goes funny. "There was a search party involved."

Sam smirks, but mostly ignores him in favor of going for the kid instead. He puts his hands out and Milo automatically leans to the side, throwing Dean's balance off. Sam catches him under the arms and hoists him up against his side. "Sleep okay? We carried you in from the car."

"Yup," He nods, resting the side of his head against the curve of Sam's shoulder, mouth popping soon after to do a full-yawn, eyes going all watery and sleepy again as he goes dead weight against the side of Sam's chest.

Dean tops his container off with a spring roll. Delicious. He raises his eyebrows and sucks some off the grease off his thumb again. "You want some dinner?" He asks Milo.

Milo sticks his thumb in his mouth, a habit that grosses Sam out considering how much dirty stuff he touches, and nods.

Five minutes later he's sitting, legs folded under the coffee table, with his own container of cut up noodles and shreds of chicken, as another girl screams on-screen.

And such is a Wednesday night.

.

Dean's laying awake around three a.m., one arm hanging off the bed, too hot to sleep under more than a sheet. Sam's snoring like a fucking cartoon character next to him and Milo keeps talking in his sleep, at one point he's complaining about having to boil water for the lung machine. Whatever that means.

"Jesus Christ," He mutters at the ceiling.

He decides around four that sleep isn't gonna happen tonight, not when the guns've gotta be cleaned and the car's gotta be running by 7:30.

By the time Sam wakes up, Dean is alternating between checking the handguns and boiling some water for the kid's insta-oatmeal.

"You look like crap," Sam says, stretching, rubbing the backs of his knuckles hard over his eyes. Dean glares at him from where he's puttering around in the kitchen, guns laying all over the counters, air tangy with the smell of the cleaner.

Dean takes the lid off the oatmeal and throws Sam the finger.

.

So, honestly. Having a kid isn't as scary as, you know, Dean had originally assumed it would be. All he is, is a little human-ish guy who doesn't know anything and sits there waiting for Dean to read him signs, point out airplanes or cows, and give him twinkies.

The worst part of having a kid is having a kid that Dean let Sam name Milo of all things. Like a dog. Or even worse, like pretentious art school parents who dress their kids in organic cotton and only let them eat vegetables and grains and shit.

"So apparently, this guy's girlfriend is actually just a meat suit, right, but dude, ready for the grossest part?" Sam asks, shifting around in his seat a little as Dean puts his blinker on.

When Sam doesn't elaborate, Dean raises his eyebrows and glances over. "What?"

"The thing inside her? Is the guys _mother_," Sam says, grinning. "How messed up is that?"

Dean smirks a little and nods. He can appreciate the situation for how awesome it is. "Okay. Yeah, that is pretty fucked. So what, just a salt and burn?"

"Exorcism," Sam goes on, flipping through the little case file he's made for this thing they're going to Oregon for.

He kinda tunes Sam out for a second, glances back over his shoulder before he cuts some guy in a Honda Civic off. What a waste of oil.

Milo's sitting in the back seat, wearing a pair of yellow gum boots, a pair of red gym shorts, and a black dress vest with no shirt underneath. He wouldn't leave the motel without that particular ensemble on, and, you know, whatever. Dean's cool with the weird taste, in fact, he's pretty much Dean's kinda kid. Perfect, just.

Right now he's got a bunch of bug and alligator stickers he's in the process of transferring from the packaging to various knees and parts of his face.

"Are you even listening to me?" Sam interrupts, thumb holding the case file open to the page he's reading from.

Dean glares over at him and tightens his grip on the wheel. "Of course."

.

Milo's asleep in the back of the Impala while Dean and Sam sneak into the chick's house for a quick exorcism. They're in and out within fifteen minutes, no dramatics, no harm, no foul. It's one of the cleanest they've done in a while.

"I don't know, man, I'd rather not know I was actually banging a family member every time I screwed my girlfriend," Dean says over the hood of the car, as he's stooping down to unlock the door.

The stare Sam levels at him from the other side of the car makes Dean grin proudly.

"Dude," Sam snorts, ducking down to look at Dean through the window when he drops down into the car and unlocks Sam's side. Sam swings the door open. "There are so many things wrong with that sentence."

Dean puts the keys in the ignition and makes a face. "You're not my _mother_, Sam." He doesn't even give Sam a chance to reply before he turns around to look at Milo in the backseat, head tipped back against the seat, mouth open, asleep, book open in his lap. Dean looks back at the funny look Sam is still giving him. "What?"

Shaking his head, Sam smirks and starts cranking his window down.

For summer in Oregon, it's _hot_.

.

They stop at McDonalds for dinner, because Dean's been bitching about chicken nuggets since the last interstate.

Now, sitting at a too-small table that Sam can't quite fit his legs under that's a few feet short of the monstrous Play Place, Dean looks placated with his mountain of nuggets and apple pies ("for later.") Sam's in the process of emptying twelve or thirteen packets of ketchup onto Milo's tray as Dean gazes around the brightly colored play room, that food-happy expression written all over his face.

Milo's already trying to dodge around Sam's hand to steal fries.

"There you go," Sam dumps the last of the mangled ketchup packets onto the tray and sits back to enjoy his chicken wraps. They're actually not bad, and Dean managed to talk the girl at the counter into giving them three for the price of two.

Chewing on a couple of fries that are cold already with one hand and fondling his McToy with the other, Milo asks with his mouth full, "When are we going home?"

"Soon," Sam replies, glancing at Dean across the table. He's nodding and moving around in his seat as he takes his Big Mac apart to pick some of the onions out.

Milo leans his head against Sam's forearm, then slides off of his seat to fidget around as he pulls the end off of another fry. "How soon?"

"Really soon," Sam says, nodding. Probably a couple of weeks, definitely before September. Really they've already been on the road too long, but stints like this only happen a couple of times a year, and they're important.

Trips like these are what makes it okay for Dean to sit around in some rural city on the west coast and dink around with silly things like a family and responsibilities for the rest of the year.

Milo uses his chicken nugget as a spoon to load up as much ketchup as physically possible before he wrangles it towards his mouth, managing to smear most of the sauce across his face in the process.

"Watch," Milo commands Dean, hitting a button on his little Happy Meal toy. It combusts and shoots some kind of plastic missile across the table, whacking Dean right in the knuckle.

Sam laughs as his grip on the Big Mac is almost compromised.

.

They're in the countryside between two rural-rough cities when Dean looks in the rear view mirror and watches him, staring out the Impala window, eyes huge and reflecting all the things Dean never saw at his age.

Sam totally catches him, grinning at him like a big fucking idiot as he dangles his hand out the window, fingers slicing through the warm summer air.

Dean stares at him for a second, eyes flickering back to look at the road.

"Shut up," Dean finally says, quietly, glancing back at the kid again.

Sam mimes zipping his lips closed, but he's still hiding a smile.

"Didn't say a word," He promises, but what he really means is: _you're the biggest sucker for that little shit that ever lived._

.

_and just to lay with you  
there's nothing that i wouldn't do  
save lay my rifle down._


End file.
